


the last of our kind

by bellafarallones



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Autistic Indrid Cold (The Adventure Zone), Canon-Typical Violence, Cuddling & Snuggling, Explicit Sexual Content, Gunplay, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Oral Sex, References to Drugs, Self-Esteem Issues, Trans Agent Stern (The Adventure Zone), but the first page or so is joseph stern depression hour, not overall a depressing fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-18 13:14:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29369097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellafarallones/pseuds/bellafarallones
Summary: A sudden screeching and susurration of wings as several trees worth of birds took off at once. Joseph looked up to see what had disturbed them: presumably the humanoid creature with a ten-foot wingspan and glowing red eyes.Joseph started laughing, wiping tears off his face. “Of course. Of fucking course I’d find the wrong cryptid. Just one more failure in the long list that is the life of Joseph Stern.”
Relationships: Indrid Cold/Agent Stern (The Adventure Zone)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> sometimes... you bring up a non-indruck ship in the indruck discord... and people play along :')

Nothing in the handbook about crying in the woods, Agent Joseph Stern reminded himself. Was it really failing to uphold the dignity of the badge if no one saw you do it? Ah, there was the essential question. 

Not that anybody saw most of the things he did. Not the maps he made of bigfoot sightings across the country, not learning six different languages to more accurately understand accounts of sasquatch-like creatures from around the world, not his  _ fucking certainty  _ that there’s  _ something here  _ and if he just finds it, everything will have been worth it. 

A sudden screeching and susurration of wings as several trees worth of birds took off at once. Joseph looked up to see what had disturbed them: presumably the humanoid creature with a ten-foot wingspan and glowing red eyes. 

Joseph started laughing, wiping tears off his face. “Of course. Of fucking course I’d find the  _ wrong cryptid.  _ Just one more failure in the long list that is the life of Joseph Stern.” 

The mothman was silent. Figures. But now that Joseph had started talking, he couldn’t stop. 

“You know even my  _ parents  _ make fun of me for looking for bigfoot? My  _ parents! _ You’d think they’d be proud of me by now at least, they had to bail my brother out of  _ jail  _ last week and I’m America’s fucking finest, but not to them, apparently. What do they  _ want  _ from me? What unarticulated expectation is there that I’m not fucking meeting!?”

The mothman took a few steps closer. There was less than an inch of snow on the ground, just enough to crunch, just enough to ensure that Joseph’s ass was currently both cold  _ and  _ muddy. 

“If you’re gonna kill me, can you at least do it dramatically? And maybe drop my corpse into the center of town from the air so everyone knows I got killed by a real live cryptid? Or else just hide it somewhere it won’t be found, so they’ll always be wondering. Maybe I’ll get an episode of  _ Unsolved Mysteries  _ written about me.”

Now the mothman was patting him awkwardly on the shoulder with a surprisingly humanlike hand.

“Everyone hates me,” Joseph said quietly. He was shaking, both from the cold and his tears. “Everyone at Amnesty Lodge, I mean. I just want to  _ help  _ and they’re hiding something from me. It feels like fucking high school all over again and I’m the new kid and everyone’s following rules I don’t understand and they won’t tell me.” 

The mothman sat down next to him on the log, and Joseph leaned against him, discovered how soft and warm he was, and then it was all over, he’d thrown his arms around the mothman and was sobbing into his side, not caring he was probably smearing the fluff with snot and tears. He could feel the weight of the mothman hugging him back, and a wing against his side blocking the cold wind. The warmth of the mothman’s skin was almost painful against his frozen hands when he got them through the layers of feathers.

“I am really not dressed for this weather,” Joseph mumbled, rubbing his cheek against the mothman’s side. “You’d think, West Virginia is the south, it won’t get that cold, but oh no, the elevation still gets you.”

His gaze fell again on the mothman’s hand: four fingers and a thumb, nails only slightly more clawlike than a human’s would be. Joseph reached out, and the mothman let him pick its hand up, flex it gently back and forth at the wrist. The way those tendons were connected, the way the thumb and fingers touched...

“What are you looking for?”

Joseph almost fell backwards off the log in his surprise, but the mothman held him up. “You can  _ talk?” _

“Yes, I can talk.” His voice was pleasant, lilting, and he sounded amused. 

“You can’t tell anyone what I just told you, please, I-”

“I’d think I should be more worried about you. Cryptid-hunter.”

Joseph waved a hand. “I’m not after you. Wait, are you the same mothman that -”

“Silver Bridge? Yes, that was me. There is, ah, only one of me.”

“Really? Since 1966?”

“Are you calling me old?” The mothman’s grin was full of sharp teeth, and something that probably should have been fear curled in Joseph’s belly. He always had been too into monsters. But then the mothman looked away. “I was there, you know. The day it collapsed. I couldn’t… not watch. But there was nothing I could do. This body is… not waterproof, so if I’d gone into the river to try to rescue anyone I wouldn’t have come out.”

“I’m so sorry.” Joseph was silent for a moment. “I was just surprised you have opposable thumbs. Can you throw?”

“Yes?” The mothman seemed confused by the question.

“Overhand or underhand?”

The mothman picked up a pinecone and threw it. It sailed a good twenty feet and bounced off a tree. Then he picked up another one and threw it underhand, in a tall arc. “Both.”

“Fascinating,” said Joseph. He didn’t feel so much like crying anymore; cryptid physiology always took his mind off things.

“Why?”

“Throwing is just very human. Even chimpanzees can’t do it nearly as well as we can; it requires a specialized adaptation of shoulder muscles to store enough energy.” He studied the mothman’s chest: the musculature must be exquisite, to support flight in such a large creature. Then he realized he was staring and looked hastily down at his watch. It was a quarter past six. “I should probably be going. Dinner, you know.”

The mothman nodded.

Joseph stood up. “Will I see you again?”

The mothman cocked his head. “Perhaps.”

“I suppose you don’t have much of a reputation for showing up on-demand.” Not cuddled up to the mothman’s feathers, Joseph had started shivering again. “Alright. Goodbye?”

“Goodbye, Joseph.” He didn’t move as Joseph walked away, a statue in the snowy woods, but when Joseph reached the edge of the clearing and looked back, the mothman was gone. 

\--

Indrid Cold was sitting in a conference room at Amnesty Lodge, not really paying attention. He hadn’t been a member of the Pine Guard, traditionally, but Duck Newton had punched him in the face and now he was getting invited to meetings. And what the hey, it wasn’t like he had anything better to do with his day.

Sometimes he even made himself useful. “Is there anything important written on the whiteboard?” he cut in.

Mama turned around and looked at him. “What?”

“Because Agent Stern is about to walk in.”

“Shit.” Mama started hurriedly wiping the board off with her sleeve. 

The door cracked open, and Joseph poked his head in. “Excuse me?”

“Yes?” said Barclay impatiently. 

“I, um, the snack bar says it’s open right now, but there’s nobody there, and I was wondering if I could buy a coffee?”

Barclay looked around the room. His gaze settled on Indrid. “Indrid. Will you sell Agent Stern some coffee?”

“I don’t know how to work the coffee maker.”

“Figure it out.” Barclay dug in his pocket for the keys to the kitchen and tossed them across the table. 

Indrid caught them easily, stood up, and attempted a smile. He could feel Joseph looking at him. Human bodies were so difficult, with their expressions requiring the coordinated motion of dozens of tiny muscles. “Alright,” he said, to no one in particular. “I will figure out how to work the coffee maker.” He left the conference room and closed the door behind him. 

“Indrid, was it?” said Joseph as they walked back towards the lobby.

“Yes. Pleasure to meet you,” Indrid said vaguely. Introductions were always difficult when one knew everyone’s names before they said them. Not that he needed future vision to know Joseph’s name: even before their meeting the previous evening, which was supposed to be him gathering intel, he’d gotten a full briefing, though the impression he’d gotten had not necessarily lined up with what the rest of the Pine Guard had told him.

“I’m Joseph. So, uh, what’s that meeting about?”

“I wasn’t really paying attention,” said Indrid honestly.

“But you must know what it was  _ for.” _

Indrid paused, trying to construct a suitable lie. “They’re thinking about putting a waterslide on the hot springs.”

“Really?”

Pleased with his story, Indrid pressed on. “Yes. Jake and some of the younger ones are very enthusiastic about it.”

“And you… do you live at the lodge?”

“No,” said Indrid. They’d reached the door of the kitchen. Indrid selected the correct key and turned it in the lock. Joseph followed him inside unbidden, which Barclay probably would not have allowed. 

The coffee machine was one you might find in a gas station. Indrid stood in front of it for a moment, eyes closed, watching the futures. If he pressed that button, scalding water would spill out over his hand. If he pressed  _ that  _ button, nothing would immediately go wrong but Barclay would be irritated later. 

As though he’d done it a hundred times before, Indrid picked up a styrofoam cup, put it under the drip, and pressed the sequence of buttons that would fill it with coffee.

Now he turned his attention back towards Joseph. He noticed different things about people when he was in his natural form versus his disguise: the day before he’d tasted Joseph’s sweat and frustration in the air, but now Joseph smelled only of soap, and with human visual acuity Indrid could see the curve of his lips, the line of his cheekbones, the shine of his immaculately gelled hair -

Joseph cleared his throat, and Indrid averted his gaze. To Joseph, he reminded himself, he was not the same being upon whose shoulder he’d cried the previous evening. 

The machine sputtered and spat out the last few drops. Joseph picked up the cup and took a sip. In a few futures he was rude enough to voice his dissatisfaction, but this was not one of them. 

Indrid thought for a moment. There was a button for hot cocoa, too, and while the result would not be good, the addition of several packets of sugar would make it worth his while. He put another cup underneath the spigot. “Barclay doesn’t actually use the machine,” he said, in case Joseph was curious. “He uses a French press for himself in the morning and gives you some of that. That’s why it’s better when he does it.”

“Okay?” said Joseph.

Indrid frowned. He’d done something wrong, but Joseph wasn’t going to tell him what it was. This was why he generally preferred his other body. People had a higher tolerance for strangeness when you looked the part. 

“The sign on the bar says coffee is $2.50,” said Joseph. “Can you give me change?”

“That I can.” Indrid followed Joseph back out into the lobby, locking the kitchen door behind them, and set his cup of cocoa down next to the cash register.

The cash register was so loud it made Indrid flinch, even though he’d seen it coming. He took Joseph’s five and counted out two ones and two quarters in return. Money, now, that was something it’d taken him a long time to get used to. 

“Will that be all?” Indrid said pleasantly. 

“Uh,” said Joseph. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Indrid picked up his cocoa again and watched Joseph go, wondering how long he could delay going back to the meeting without attracting attention.

\--

Joseph dressed better for the weather that evening, in a heavy coat and hat, though he only had to stand by the log for a few minutes before the mothman alit beside him.

“You must really like this log,” the mothman commented.

“No, I was hoping to see you again.” Looking up at the mothman, Joseph realized just how little he’d taken in the previous night, thinking only of how comfortable he was _.  _ But now that he wasn’t distraught and freezing he could register that the mothman was beautiful, as well. His wings appeared black at first glance, but Joseph could tell in the fading light of day that the feathers were iridescent, shining purple and pink like an oil slick. His eyes glowed softly red - they must have seemed brighter in the world of 1967, with less light pollution to compete with. 

“Oh,” said the mothman. “I’m touched.”

“I’m sorry for being such a wreck last night. I promise I’m usually more put-together than that.”

“It’s quite alright.” The mothman sat down on the log and stretched out his long legs.

“So.” Joseph rocked back and forth on his heels. “What have you been up to today?”

The mothman seemed to have to think about that one. “Well, I had some pretty good sugar-water. How about you?”

Joseph sighed. “Do you mind if I vent a little?”

“Go right ahead.” The mothman’s expression was impossible to read. Joseph guessed that he emoted with his antennae, but he had no idea what their angles signified. 

“So the place I’m staying, Amnesty Lodge.”

“Yes?”

“Today I walked in on some kind of meeting, but they stopped talking as soon as I came in, and I  _ still  _ don’t know why they hate me so much. If they’re doing drugs or whatever I’m not going to narc on them. That’s not my job. I care about bigfoot. But it makes living there really miserable.”

“I’m sorry.”

“And I met this really weird guy. His name was Indrid? He was also at the meeting, even though he doesn’t even live at the lodge.” Joseph sighed. “I bet it’s drugs. This guy was skinny enough he could have been on meth or something. And his hands were  _ freezing.  _ And he was wearing these red sunglasses you couldn’t even see his eyes through. Indoors, mind you. Who  _ does _ that?”

“I couldn’t say,” the mothman murmured.

“Although I bet if he was on meth he wouldn’t have such good teeth.” Joseph sighed. There had been other things, too. Indrid’s easy confidence had sent a pleasant shiver down Joseph’s spine, and there was something almost reptilian about the way he had moved, standing very still and then surging forwards all at once, like an alligator lying for hours just underneath the surface of the water before it struck. 

He glanced furtively over at the mothman, who was sitting with his hands politely clasped. “You look… tired,” said the mothman after a few moments of silence.

Joseph sat down next to him on the log. “I am, yeah.”

“You can lean on me, if you’d like.”

“Thanks.” Joseph moved closer, allowing the mothman to put his arm around him. His coat swished against the mothman’s feathers. “What’s it like, being mothman?”

“What’s it like to be human?”

Joseph yawned. “Good point.” His eyelids were getting heavy, staring out at the still woods and listening to the mothman’s even breath. “Do you mind if I just… chill here for a bit?”

“As long as you’d like,” said the mothman, and Joseph closed his eyes.

It took him a moment to get his bearings when he woke up. He was in his own bed at the lodge, which was definitely not where he’d fallen asleep. Had the mothman thing been a dream? No, because his head was in the mothman’s lap, limp claws in his hair. The mothman himself was sitting up against the pillows, head thrown back and eyes closed. He’d fallen asleep stroking Joseph’s hair. 

Affection flooded quick and heavy in Joseph’s chest, drained almost immediately by a knock at the door. “Who is it?” Joseph called, sitting up.

“It’s Barclay,” called a voice through the door. “You missed breakfast, so I brought you a plate.”

“Shit! Uh, just a minute!” Joseph turned around and shook the mothman’s shoulders. “Mothie! Wake up!” he hissed.

The mothman’s eyes opened. “What did you just call me?” he said, sounding bemused.

“In the closet! You have to  _ hide!”  _ The mothman allowed himself to be manhandled into the closet, and Joseph shoved the door closed behind him. Then he opened the door for Barclay. “Good morning, Barclay.”

Barclay was holding a plate of pancakes and eggs. “Morning, Joseph. Up late last night?”

“Oh, yeah, you know. Working hard.” Joseph took the plate and silverware Barclay offered. “Thanks for the breakfast.”

Barclay furrowed his brow. “Hey, have you seen anything weird this morning?”

“Nope, not at all! Why? Have you?”

“No.” Barclay shook his head. “Nevermind.”

“Alright, bye!” Joseph shut the door in Barclay’s face, put the plate of food down on his desk, and opened the closet door again. The mothman was sitting scrunched up with his knees to his chest and his wings folded behind his back, his glowing red eyes still visible between Joseph’s dress shirts. “Sorry about that, you can come out now.” Joseph offered his hand, and helped the mothman up. “What  _ happened  _ last night?”

“You fell asleep and I brought you back.”

“I’m not sure how I feel about you knowing where I live.”

“You told me you were staying at Amnesty Lodge, and I can see the future.”

“Fair point.” Joseph remembered the plate of breakfast. “Do you want any of this? Barclay’s cooking is actually really good.”

“Maybe a pancake?”

Joseph held the plate out, and the mothman delicately picked up a pancake between two of his claws and dropped it into his mouth. Stifling a laugh, Joseph started in on the eggs. 

“Are you going to eat that syrup?”

“No, feel free.” 

The mothman picked up the little pitcher of syrup, served hot with blobs of liquid butter floating on top, and tipped the whole thing into his mouth. Now Joseph couldn’t stop himself from laughing. 

“What?”

“Oh, nothing. You’re just funny.” The mothman’s antennae drooped slightly. “No, it’s in a good way! Like… I like spending time with you.”

“Oh. Thank you. I also enjoy spending time with you, Joseph.”

Joseph raised a forkful of egg. “Cheers to that.”

They ate in silence for a little while more. The mothman finished off the stack of pancakes and delicately used a napkin to dab crumbs off his feathers.

“I’ve never seen you in the light before,” Joseph said. “Your wings are gorgeous.”

The mothman stretched out his wings. “You can touch, if you like.”

“Really?” Joseph put the plate down and knelt on the bed in front of the mothman. 

“Touching the inner part by the joint is considered sexual,” the mothman said.

“Good to know.” Joseph stroked the outermost part of the wing with his knuckles, very gently. 

“You can, if you’d like. I just figured you should know.”

“What is…”  _ What is sex like?  _ was probably not a good way to put it. “How does your species reproduce?”

“We - every individual can both produce and fertilize eggs, but only in our season.”

“Simultaneous hermaphroditism?” Joseph straddled the mothman’s lap to get a better reach. 

“Yes, but we are not all the same sex, there’s -” and the words he used for moth-person sexes did not lend themselves to the English alphabet. 

“Ah.” Joseph met the mothman’s gaze, which was indecipherable, but the way he tilted his wings so Joseph’s fingers brushed the place they met his back was perfectly clear, and the way he shuddered pleasurably when Joseph touched him. “Tell me about your language?” 

The mothman squeaked a little but did not respond. 

“Is it inflected?”

“I - we- look, Joseph, you can either sexually stimulate me or expect answers about linguistics. Not both at the same time.”

Joseph pulled his hand away, and laughed at the little chirp the mothman made. “Oh, I’m sorry, did you have a preference?”

“Yes, I would like to have sex with you, to be crude about it.” At Joseph’s expression, the mothman waved a hand. “I’m not envisioning anything… penetrative. But you are making me feel very good, and I would be happy to return the favor.”

“Do moth-people kiss?”

“Yes,” said the mothman, and Joseph kissed him. He would have been able to tell he wasn’t kissing a human, even if he didn’t have a fistful of feathers, by the flexibility of Indrid’s tongue and the sharpness of his teeth and oh, now he was curious about the things that tongue could do. “My antennae are also -  _ ah  _ \- very sensitive and -”

Something slick brushed up against Joseph’s shirt, and he looked down. “ _ Wow,”  _ he breathed. “That’s a big dick. Uh. That’s a compliment in modern human society, I don’t know if moth-people have the same body standards -” but the mothman cut him off with a kiss. He’d have to ask about it later. 

The mothman was  _ whimpering,  _ jerking himself off as he pressed his wings against Joseph’s fingers. Joseph sort of wanted to poke around, investigate the equipment he’d referred to for fertilizing and being fertilized, but he realized there was perhaps a time and a place.

“Want me to touch your antennae?”

“Uh-huh,  _ please  _ Joseph.” But he didn’t get much of a chance to, because at the lightest touch the mothman came with a groan all up his own chest. “Fuck. That was good,” the mothman said. He folded his wings, protecting the sensitive region Joseph had been touching, and collapsed back against the pillows.

Joseph could only stare. The mothman’s cock retreated slowly into its sheath.

“Alright,” the mothman said as he got up, careful not to drip on the carpet. “Are you okay with having mothman cum on your towels?” he said as he went into the bathroom.

“Might put it under a microscope later.”

The faucet started. “You won’t see anything interesting, we are only fertile in our heat season.” When he came out of the bathroom again his feathers were damp but clean, and Joseph was unbuttoning his shirt. If moth-people were hermaphroditic, this one might not even register that Joseph was trans. 

“If you’re curious about human anatomy you can touch me as well.” Joseph finished unbuttoning his shirt and shrugged it off his shoulders. The mothman’s claw dragged over one nipple, and Joseph shivered. “Do you  _ have  _ nipples?”

“No,” said the mothman. “Tell me about them?”

“Well, they’re sensitive.” The mothman raised his other hand as well. “Humans give live birth and nurse our young, producing milk from the breasts and dispensing it through the nipple. In males the nipple is vestigial but still defined and still has - lots of nerves.”

“Your heart rate is increasing. Is this an arousal response?”

“Yep,” said Joseph. “And - my face getting flushed, and my pupils dilating.”

“My vision is not particularly acute,” the mothman confessed, “and so I cannot see all that. But I can smell your slick.”

Did that mean the mothman had been able to smell his horniness before?

“Will you show me how you touch yourself?”

“Y-yeah.” Joseph unzipped his pants and shoved them down his thighs enough to get his hand in. He was wet already, wet enough to use two fingers and imagine the cock he’d just been looking at. 

The mothman settled between his thighs to watch. “You enjoy being penetrated?”

“Sometimes.” Joseph couldn’t tell teasing from curiosity, knowledge from future vision. The mothman couldn’t be  _ too  _ unfamiliar with humanity, judging by his unaccented English, but also the number of humans he’d been in contact with had to be limited, because the more people he met the higher the likelihood one of them would talk.

He’d hoped not to mention the trans thing but he felt guilty, now, giving the mothman an inaccurate impression of human anatomy. “My configuration is not standard,” Joseph said.

The mothman could perhaps hear the discomfort in Joseph’s voice, because he looked up. “Joseph. It’s fine. I’m asking questions because it turns you on, not because I’m expecting an anatomy lesson.”

“Oh.” 

“Also because it’s fun to see if I can render you speechless.”

“If that’s what you want I can think of better ways for you to use your mouth.”

The mothman grinned. “Really? You’d let me eat you out?”

Joseph pressed his palm against his dick - why wouldn’t he trust a monster with the most sensitive region of his anatomy? “Just be careful with your teeth.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” said the mothman, tugging Joseph’s pants and underwear all the way off. “I’ll only bite if you ask nicely.” He teased Joseph’s slit with his claws, unbearably gently, and looked up, suddenly serious. “Please don’t touch my antennae. You’re going to want to, but they’re too sensitive and it won’t be very nice for me.”

“Alright,” said Joseph.

“Good. Thank you.”

And then the mothman was sucking his dick, and that tongue was even better than he’d imagined, long and flexible, pressing inside him  _ perfectly  _ and Joseph reached out and had to pull his hand back before he grabbed automatically at the mothman’s antennae. Instead he kept his hands at his sides. “Fuck you’re good at this,” he said. He could feel feathers brushing against his inner thighs, and clawed hands holding his hips down as he ground up against that tongue. 

He squeezed his eyes shut as he came, gripping handfuls of blanket, unable to suppress the little  _ ngh  _ of pleasure he made. The mothman licked him through it, pulled away when Joseph’s legs twitched with the aftershocks. 

When Joseph managed to get his eyes to focus again the mothman was still lying between his legs, resting his dripping chin on his hand and looking up at Joseph. Fuck, how could a giant moth with claws and a mouth full of teeth look so adorable?

“You said when we first met that you were the same mothman as Silver Bridge.” 

“I'm the only mothman on earth. You can’t get this dick anywhere else.”

“So you’re…” Joseph thought of the theory of Nessie as the last lonely plesiosaur trapped in her loch. “The last of your kind?” 

One antenna twitched. “Is that what humans consider pillow talk?”

“Right. Sorry. Wanna cuddle?”

The mothman laughed and moved up the bed to lie in Joseph’s arms. “Much better.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter has gunplay in it! i have never so much as touched a gun in real life and i don't like them and don't support having them around

The clock on the microwave said it was almost four o’clock, and the sun was starting to think about rising. Indrid, sitting in the kitchen of Amnesty Lodge, was starting to wonder if it was worth it to go home to go to bed or if he should just take a nap on one of the couches in the lobby and call it good. 

The ceiling above him creaked, and then the stairs, and then Barclay was in the kitchen too, expression still a little vague with sleep. He pressed a couple of buttons on the stove, and it beeped at him. Finally, tying his apron around his waist, he looked at Indrid. “Good morning.”

“Morning.”

“Care to explain why Agent Stern’s room smelled like moth pheromones yesterday?” He turned on the faucet to wash his hands.

“Um.” Having seen Barclay’s question coming did not mean Indrid was prepared to answer it. “I mean, I’m not in love with him or anything.”

“That is not at  _ all  _ what I asked, but thanks, I guess.” Barclay put a large metal bowl on the scale, tared it, and started weighing out flour.

“He only knows me in Sylph form, and seems to dislike me when I’m disguised. As far as I can tell, he’s trying to hide me from you all, which does mean he’s at least open to the idea of keeping the existence of a cryptid a secret.” Indrid cleared his throat. “What are you making?”

“Donuts,” said Barclay. “The dough needs time to rise before I bake it and I want them to be ready by breakfast.” He wasn’t referencing a written recipe, and it wasn’t clear whether he was improvising or just knew the recipe so well he didn’t need to look at it.

Indrid didn’t understand why people considered him so special for acting based on information other people didn’t know.

“What I don’t understand,” Barclay said as he heated up the milk, “is how you broke the ice. Like, how do you  _ start  _ getting to know each other when you’re the mothman and he’s a cryptid hunter?”

“How do you mean?”

“Weren’t you afraid of him? He could have shot at you.”

This was true. There had been very few futures where Joseph had shot at him, but more than zero.

“And he should have been afraid of you! Don’t humans generally think you’re demonic-looking?”

Indrid thought back. “He did sort of think I was about to kill him at first.”

Barclay turned around from where he was kneading the dough. Lesser mortals would have used a stand mixer, but not him. “And he didn’t shoot you then? Or run away?”

“No.” Joseph had asked him not to tell anyone that he’d been sobbing in the woods, and so Indrid did not elaborate.

“And now you’re having sex with him?”

“Well, I am not  _ currently  _ having sex with him. Currently I’m sitting in the kitchen talking to you. But I have recently had sex with him and am fairly confident I may have sex with him again in the near future.”

Barclay looked down at the dough, poking gently at it, and it told him something in a language Indrid didn’t understand. “Well, there’s no accounting for taste,” Barclay murmured.

Indrid couldn’t tell who was being insulted, whether him, Joseph, or some aspect of baking, but he didn’t mind. He knew the donuts would turn out delicious.

\--

The next time the mothman came to Amnesty Lodge, Joseph had known him for long enough that his first instinct, when he heard something very large hit the window, was to get up and throw it open. He’d been hoping for a visit, honestly; sorting through his notes had been giving him a headache.

The mothman came through the window with none of his usual grace, staggered across the carpet and into Joseph’s arms, his breathing ragged. “What -?” Joseph’s hand came away bloody. “You’re hurt!”

“I’d noticed, thanks,” said the mothman. “A towel? I’d rather not bleed all over your bed.”

“Right, right,” said Joseph, and hurried to retrieve a clean one from the bathroom. The blood seemed to be coming from the inside of one wing, which he was holding awkwardly against his body. “Can you hold this on top of it? I’ll get my first-aid kit.”

“Thank you,” said the mothman.

Joseph took his room key and hurried out into the hall. Thankfully he didn’t meet anyone in the lobby as he went out into the parking lot, got the first-aid kit out of the trunk of his car and sprinted back inside. 

The mothman was hunched over against the wall when Joseph got back, blood blooming across the towel. 

“Fuck,” Joseph said, not even bothering to lock the door behind him in his haste. “Can you spread your wing for me?”

The mothman did so, and the damage was so much worse than it had appeared, blood gushing from the sensitive inner band of the wing, the same place Joseph had touched to make him gasp with pleasure. 

Joseph’s training took over. “You’re going to be okay,” he said as he located a bottle of iodine. “Hold still, please.” He didn’t know how much blood had been lost, but he needed to be calm and in-charge. The mothman gritted his teeth and obeyed, flinching when the liquid touched his open wound. “What  _ happened?” _

“I was… flying drunk?”

“The truth, please.” Joseph lifted a few feathers to look at the laceration underneath them. “Are these  _ teeth marks?” _

“I can’t tell you. If it was just me I would in a heartbeat, believe me, but there’s other people involved and I can’t - ” He let out a chirp-scream as Joseph pushed the first stitch in.

“Shh, shh, I’ve got you,” said Joseph, petting his shoulder. 

The mothman clasped his hands together. “I’m sorry, it’s fine, you can keep going.”

Joseph pushed the second stitch through, the mothman’s pained whimpers breaking his heart. He could hear thunderous footsteps down the hall, but blocked it out. Everything that mattered was in front of him. 

But when he heard the sound of the doorknob turning, he dropped the needle and went for his gun. He had it pointed at the door when it opened, revealing… Duck Newton, holding a sword, and Barclay hovering at his shoulder. “Really, no, Duck, it’s fine, you don’t need to -” Barclay sagged. “Oh. Hello, Agent.”

Joseph leveled his gun at Duck’s chest, and then at Barclay’s. Duck raised his sword. “Don’t you fuckin’ touch him.”

“Mr. Newton,” Joseph started, ”I promise you -”

“Duck,” said the mothman from behind him. “It’s alright.”

“What?” said Duck and Joseph in unison.

“It’s a whole thing,” said Barclay hurriedly. “They know each other, but I didn’t want to tell you that, Duck, because I didn’t know if Indrid -”

_ “Indrid?”  _ said Joseph.

“Oh,” said Duck, somewhat awkwardly. “Alright, then.” He pulled a pair of red-lensed spectacles out of the front pocket of his shirt. “I brought your glasses?”

“His what?” said Joseph, looking between Duck and the mothman, sitting there with his wing still outstretched. “Wait.” He pointed at the mothman. “You’re Indrid Cold! Why didn’t you tell me!?” And then he remembered. “Oh. I’m so sorry.”

Indrid laughed, then winced. “Can someone please see to my gaping wound?”

“Oh! Of course.” Joseph used an alcohol wipe to sanitize the needle he’d dropped.

“Actually,” said Indrid in a very small voice. “Maybe Duck stitches and you keep petting me?”

Duck laughed. “Sure, if Agent Stern is alright with that.”

“You know first aid?” said Joseph dubiously.

“Lotsa ways to get injured in the woods.”

“Fair enough.” He handed over the needle. “I was thinking seven stitches would probably be enough, and then antibiotic ointment and bandages over that.”

“Alright. Wow, you’re really kitted up, huh?” said Duck, looking down at the first-aid box open on the bed.

“You’d be surprised how much trouble agents get into, especially in UP.” Joseph petted the feathers back from Indrid’s forehead, laughing a little when he groaned. “Oh, yes, you’re very brave.”

“Thank you,” said Indrid. 

Joseph combed his fingers gently through the feathers on Indrid’s chest as Duck finished stitching and picked up the antibiotic ointment. “You got real torn up, didn’t you?” said Duck gently. 

“Uh-huh,” said Indrid, clinging to Joseph’s arm with both hands. Duck picked up a roll of bandages and seemed to be considering how best to wrap them around a wing. He ended up going around the top, slow and steady.

Then Barclay poked his head back into the room. “Duck, we’ve got to…” His gaze fell on Joseph. “See to things.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Duck. “Things. Uh. Excuse me.” He stood up and brushed his hands off on his pants. “Good as new,” he said to Indrid. “Well. It will be, if you don’t pick at it.”

“Thank you, Duck,” said Indrid. He seemed to have no inclination to leave Joseph’s side, and neither Duck nor Barclay expected him to.

“You’re still keeping things from me,” Joseph said when the others had left, closing the door behind them.

Indrid stretched out on the bed. “Of course. You’re a cop.”

“But they know about you.”

Indrid nodded, fidgeting idly with his red glasses, which Duck had left on the bedside table.

“Can you tell me where bigfoot is?”

“No.”

“Is it someone I already know?”

“Come on, Joseph,” said Indrid. “Kepler isn’t  _ that  _ small of a town.”

“Good point.” Joseph looked at him for a moment. “I’m sorry I said you looked like you did meth.”

“Normally people find this body to be the more alarming of the two.” Indrid paused. “But I understand if you… don’t want to spend time with me.”

“Are you kidding? I’m thrilled you have a human form, whatever it looks like.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, ‘cause it means we can go on  _ dates.”  _ He registered the surprise on Indrid’s face. “Uh. If you want. We don’t have to. I shouldn’t have assumed.”

Indrid reached over and took his hand. “No, I do, I was just surprised you’d suggest it. Given your first impression of me.”

“I’ll show you just how wrong I was in whatever way you’ll let me.”

\--

Joseph must have succeeded, somehow, because in the weeks that followed he found himself gratifyingly often with a lapful of Indrid. Now they were making out on the unmade bed in the Winnebago, and between kisses he looked up into Indrid’s strange face as Indrid yanked his shirt untucked and touched his chest, then down to his waist, curling around the hard lump at his hip. “You brought your gun?”

“Uh.” Joseph had honestly forgotten it was there. He pulled it out of its holster and put it on the bedside table. “Sorry.” Then he immediately forgot about the gun because Indrid was kissing him again. 

Indrid pulled back after a moment. “Can I take your shirt off?”

“Yeah,” said Joseph, and went to unbutton it, but Indrid batted his hands away to do it himself.

“Do you have any particularly lurid sexual fantasies?” said Indrid as he did so. The question came without a hint of judgement. 

“Well, now when I masturbate I mostly just think about you railing me.”

“I’m flattered.”

“Otherwise…” Joseph sighed. “I mean, I don’t even know if you could call it a fantasy, given how far it is from anything that would be feasible or desirable in real life. But… the punishment of Prometheus?”

“With the eagle tearing out his liver every day?”

“Yes.” In the privacy of his own head, Joseph had been here many times: lying bound on a rock in a valley between mountain peaks, mountains so high on all sides he could see them around the edges of his vision like he was looking up from the bottom of a well. “And I - the eagle’s talons and beak inside me, tearing away shreds.”

Indrid only nodded. He’d gotten Joseph’s shirt all the way unbuttoned and was tracing idle patterns on his chest with a fingertip. Not in a hurry, just listening. 

Joseph had tried telling lovers about this before, and they’d always teased him about it afterwards, the strange places his mind went, but Indrid was different. “And then the eagle flies away with pieces of me inside it and after a thousand years of this the molecules of me are everywhere. And my body aches as it regrows. Because I am magical and I am powerful but all I’m good for is food for birds.” 

You could psychoanalyze  _ that  _ until the cows came home. Indrid didn’t seem inclined to, though, just took Joseph’s hand in his and stroked the side of it with the pad of his thumb. “Fantasizing about being helpless like that isn’t uncommon,” Indrid pointed out.

Joseph lunged forwards and kissed him, felt Indrid smile against his lips. “Thanks for not thinking I’m a freak,” Joseph said when he pulled away. The last guy he’d told had asked accusingly whether he couldn’t get in the mood unless he was imagining his partner was an eagle. 

“Men who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.”

“So what are your lurid fantasies?”

“I want you to stick your gun in my mouth.”

Whatever Joseph had been expecting, it wasn’t that.

“You pointed a gun at Duck and Barclay. To protect me. When you thought they were humans and I was a monster. You realize I’m normally the one getting shot at, right?”

The way Indrid had phrased that next-to-last sentence was worth coming back to at a later time, but not right now. “You are worth protecting.”

Indrid froze. His face was turned away, Joseph couldn’t read him at all, was almost worried he’d offended him somehow - who was he, a human, to claim to protect someone like Indrid? But when Indrid spoke his voice was shaky. “Thank you.”

“And so you want - like right now?”

When Indrid looked up, his smile was lustful and opaque, his voice all flirtation once again. “If you’re interested.” Joseph picked his gun up, a standard-issue Glock 22, and unloaded it in one fluid motion, plunking the cartridge down on the bedside table. “Fuck my face with it,” Indrid said. “I’m not made of glass.” He looked from the gun up to Joseph’s face. “And you know my safeword.”

“Alright.” Joseph took a fistful of Indrid’s hair and shoved the barrel of his gun into his mouth. Pink lips caught on the black muzzle before going slack to admit it. Indrid was distractingly good-looking, and seeing him like this scratched an itch Joseph hadn’t even known he’d had, reaching deep inside his gut like an eagle’s talons. He pulled the gun out a little bit, shiny where Indrid’s tongue had been, and then pushed it back in.

Indrid was clinging to Joseph’s unbuttoned shirt, body limp and pupils blown, almost sucking on the gun. Joseph wondered what he was thinking about: they trusted each other enough to do  _ this,  _ but he still had no idea. 

He blinked, and saw that Indrid’s hips were twitching. 

“If you sit in my lap with your back to me it’ll be easier for me to jerk you off,” Joseph said.

“Yeagh.” Indrid’s voice was mangled around the gun. Then he pulled back, and gestured vaguely. “Sit facing that way?”

Joseph obeyed, realizing that now he was looking into the mirror on the back of the closet door, that when Indrid climbed into his lap again he could see both of their faces. 

Indrid ran his tongue over his teeth. “Tastes less like gunpowder than I’d expect.”

“I don’t do a lot of actual shooting.”

“One of the many things I like about you,” Indrid commented as he wriggled out of his pants. He was already hard. “Now, where were we?”

Joseph switched the gun to his left hand and stuck it back into Indrid’s mouth at an angle, watching it bulge obscenely through his cheek. “You’re so hot like this,” said Joseph, hoping his voice landed on the side of dominance rather than genuine wonder at the pornography of Indrid’s lips and the little noises of desperation that slipped through them as Joseph started jerking him off. 

“Mph!” said Indrid. He wrapped one of his hands around Joseph’s on his cock, demanding  _ harder  _ and  _ tighter.  _ Needy thing.

“You always want more, huh?” Joseph tightened his grip and pushed the gun into Indrid’s mouth so far that Indrid’s lips brushed his fingers, but still Indrid didn’t gag, though his eyes drifted closed and he shuddered in ecstasy.

“I’m gonna -” Indrid said, and stretched a hand out towards the bedside table, unable to quite reach it. Joseph got a couple of tissues, which Indrid took out of his hand and carefully ejaculated into, remarkably composed given the situation.

“ _ Wow,”  _ said Joseph, watching Indrid pull back off the gun, breathing hard. “Do you want, um, aftercare now? Or -”

Indrid’s voice came out hoarse. “Let me suck your dick first?”

“Hold this.” Joseph stuck the gun back into Indrid’s mouth and let go of it slowly, making sure Indrid had it firmly between his teeth. Then he sat back against the pillows and lifted his hips to peel off his pants and underwear before he pulled the gun out and put it back on the bedside table.

Indrid managed to toss the tissues unceremoniously into the trash can even from across the room. Then he spread Joseph’s thighs and settled himself on his elbows between them. “Do you want my fingers inside you?”

“Uh.” Joseph bucked his hips up, Indrid’s warm breath on his inner thigh. “Y-yes please.”

“And you were calling me needy,” Indrid teased, sliding one finger in easily. Joseph’s mind skipped. He hadn’t said that. He’d  _ thought  _ it, but never said it. 

But then Indrid’s mouth closed around his dick and the thought evaporated. He sank his hands into Indrid’s hair and tugged, grinding against Indrid’s tongue, and two of Indrid’s fingers were curling up long and perfect inside of him. “ _ Fuck  _ yes Indrid, fuck please  _ faster _ -”

He curled his legs around Indrid’s shoulders and dug his heels into his lower back. And then he thought of Indrid’s other body, of the powerful wings and long claws of the beast that had taken Stern’s gun between his lips and sucked like a whore. And that was the thought that pushed him over the edge.

When Indrid pulled back his glasses were askew and he was smiling. Joseph reached out and gently straightened his glasses. “For a minute there I think you were getting your timelines mixed up.”

Indrid’s smile vanished. “I’m sorry. What did I -”

“Nothing major that I could tell, just… the dirty talk that wasn’t.”

“Alright.” Indrid crawled up the bed to cuddle, and Joseph wrapped his arms around him. 

“So you’re definitely not going to tell me how to find bigfoot,” said Joseph after a few minutes of silence.

Indrid looked up. “No.” From this angle Joseph could see his eyes, steel beneath his glasses. And then Indrid kissed him, warm and simple, and Joseph closed his eyes and saw nothing.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! feel free to hit me up on tumblr @bellafarallones


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